Battle Wound
by pratz
Summary: Your wound flares to life, and you're convinced it's cancerous now: the way it spreads to your lungs, the way it constricts and squeezes, the way it tries to imprison you again. You're a free woman again today; it's not nothing. You can't be nothing.


**Battle Wound**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: _Orange is the New Black_ the series belongs to Jenji Kohan and co.

AN: I had a drabble challenge fest, and Occam Razor's of Glee asked me to write something to _Set the Fire to the Third Bar_ (Snow Patrol feat. Martha Wainwright). This was the result.

-.-.-.-

(i)

The first place you visit on your first day as a free woman again is Fritzl's Lunch Box.

The first bite you take is followed by an appreciative moan, and your server gives you a big, satisfied grin. You grin back at him before diving into your burger again. You're a free woman again, after all, and you reward yourself with the best burger in New York.

In front of you, there's a vintage map of New York on the wall. You remember discussing a cultural studies lesson with her. _Great cities are either built based on the star-line or grid-line_, you remember her say. _And the greatest city in the world of course follows a star-line. I don't think it's a coincidence._

You wonder if you can track the star-line when you're walking down Irving Avenue to get to Weirfield Street. On the map, you see that you will pass a school, the Washington Irving Library, another school, and the Irving Square Park to get there. It won't be long. Twenty minutes won't be long.

The idea makes you let out a low chuckle.

It's not Park Slope, but somehow Weirfield Street fits her.

(ii)

The second place you visit is a bar.

You get yourself a bottle of Porkslap pale ale and a can of Brew Free! Or Die IPA. The first is to remind yourself of how glorious New York beer can be, the second of a serious San Franciscan attitude. She loved both, you remember, and could never decide to pick one over the other. _I want both_, you remember her saying.

You too remember when you wanted two things at the same time and found you couldn't. You wanted to know who you are; you let go of your dream father. You wanted a utopia in San Francisco; you bid goodbye to the Northeastern. You wanted your thrill; you lost her.

You're a free woman again today, and you wonder what you have to trade in exchange.

You couldn't help but wanting too much still, though.

(iii)

The third place you visit is her house.

You ring her bell once, twice. You hold your breath as you hear footsteps come to get the door. The last time you waited for a foreign door to open, a washed-out man broke you beyond repair. Your wound remains even after years, and even though you're not proud of it, it serves as a reminder of how dangerous hope can be.

You remind yourself that you're a free woman again today; you won't be imprisoned again by hope.

The door opens and she's standing there: face contorted in surprise, mouth open, eyes wide. She opens her mouth to speak, but you beat her to it by saying, _Hey_.

She opens her mouth again, but another voice beats her to it again. It's boyish, sleepy, and curious. _Mommy_, you hear. _Do you have a guest?_

She turns around, saying, _It's nothing, baby. Go back to your room. I'll be with you in a moment._

Your wound flares to life, and you're convinced it's cancerous now: the way it spreads to your lungs, the way it constricts and squeezes, the way it tries to imprison you again. You're a free woman again today; it's not nothing. You _can't_ be nothing.

You're striding past her front yard without waiting for her to turn around to face you. Your name, she screams. Prison, your body screams. Get away, your mind screams. Your wound is now a phantom of memories and of closed lids and of distant places. Nothing, your heart screams. _Nothing._

Your train takes you to Queens, and it's only when the bartender puts down your fourth order of gin on the rocks in front of you that you're aware of where you are. He looks at you for a moment before saying, _You don't look drunk enough._ He points at other patrons over his shoulder and laughs. _But you do look kinda terrible._

_I've got a battle wound_, you say.

The bartender smiles in sympathy. _Let me adjust the temp for you, then_, he says, reaching under the table to turn on the central heater. _Warmer is always better, don't you think so?_

_Yeah_, you say. _Better_.

You're a free woman again today; you pay it with the wound that singes in your lie and howls in the absence of her arms.

-.-.-.-


End file.
